The Thing About Scars
by spamightwrite
Summary: Dean Ambrose is in no way self-conscious. Not at all. Well, maybe about all those scars... Cesaro can't just let that go unnoticed. Ambrosaro.


"S-Sorry. I'll... I mean, I'm gonna go put on a shirt."

Dean broke away from Cesaro's embrace before he could even begin to react, sliding off of the bed and ambling towards his suitcase. His boyfriend could only watch for a few moments, lacking words for the sort of confusion he was experiencing.

And that couldn't do – Cesaro always had words. For everything. He insisted upon it, really.

"But why?" He settled on a simpler question than he'd intended, but there really was no better way to put it.

Dean was rummaging through his belongings and grumbling to himself, and seemed to only register Cesaro's words after he found what he was looking for: one of the gray ribbed tank tops that he wore to the ring. The Swiss one hated to admit it, but he was a little bit jealous that Dean could travel, rest, and perform in the exact same outfit.

He held the cotton fabric in his fingers as he struggled to come up with a response.

Geez, did he even know why?

Dean never lacked for emotions. His work in front of the camera was clear evidence of that. But it was always on the extreme end of things, usually cockiness or passion or unbridled rage. This was something altogether different, something very small and quiet. Yet it would occasionally remind him of his discomfort in a way he couldn't ignore, like a tiny hair sitting on the back of his tongue that he could never swallow or reach with his fingers to remove.

And that feeling reared its ugly head as soon as Cesaro's fingers lingered and rubbed against a certain spot, a raised line of flesh that stretched far down his shoulder blade.

He could feel it immediately, precisely because he couldn't feel it very well at all. The scar on his back had too few nerves to react accordingly to Cesaro's touch. And so he could sense that he was touching it, or he felt the pressure of contact in the muscle beneath it.

"I uh. Dunno. Just... I think I look better with my back covered."

Hm.

"Are you uncomfortable with what we're doing?" The pang of concern was clear in Cesaro's voice. "We can stop if you want to, it's all right."

Dean whirled around and barked, "You think I don't wanna fuck you? Geez, man. You're nuts." He began pouting deliberately in Cesaro's direction to drive his point home.

"Then what is it?" Cesaro settled himself against the headboard, clasping his hands behind his neck. The muscles in his chest and arms flexed in a rather tantalizing manner, making Dean regret walking off.

The both of them could be very stubborn when they wanted to be. The blond doubted he'd get away from this anytime soon. It'd be far quicker to just get it out in the open and then try to forget it as soon as possible.

Now he just had to find the words for it.

"I dunno." He scratched his nails against the stubble on his cheek. The sensation helped him think a little more clearly. "I think it looks kinda ugly, right? My back, I mean. Bunch'a nasty scars all over it, yanno?"

A worried little line appeared in Cesaro's forehead, his eyes narrowed. He dropped his hands to rest them on his lap and cocked his head to the side. "Forgive me if I disagree with you."

"Yeah, I know, it's stupid, right?" Dean let out a mirthless chuckle and threw his shirt back into the suitcase. "I mean, who cares? My fault I got 'em, doin' deathmatches like the dumbass that I am."

God, it pained him to hear Dean berate himself like that. It didn't matter to Cesaro where he got them from. And not all of them were from his early days in hardcore wrestling. Some bore memories too painful for Cesaro to drudge up, and he understood that.

But that's the thing about scars. Some fade into the aether, some can't be hidden, and some leave the bearer with more than just the physical evidence, even when that evidence has long disappeared. Dean had so many scars that could fit into any one of those categories. But because of the way he felt about Dean, Cesaro couldn't help but love every single one of them.

Cesaro shook his head and patted the space in bed next to him. "Come here, Bärchen."

Dean shrugged and decided to trudge back to the bed, his back still just as naked as before. He sat on Cesaro's right side and accepted the arm that lay itself over his shoulders. He couldn't bring himself to look at his boyfriend just yet, even though he felt his intense and gorgeous eyes piercing into him. But he sat, and he stayed.

"You do know that I think you're beautiful, don't you?"

He couldn't suppress a snicker. "Ain't the word I'd've used, but okay, 'preciate it."

Cesaro let a grin creep up on one corner of his lips and sighed. "I love to hear you talk, Dean, but I want you to listen just for a little bit."

He shrugged again, his pale blue eyes wandering everywhere in the room that wasn't to his left. But he stayed quiet, and that was enough of an indication for Cesaro.

"I think you're a beautiful human being." His fingers stroked slowly against the side of his arm, drawing tingles wherever they touched. "And your beauty is contained in a physical form, which is your body." They strayed backward and traced against the long, thin scar on the back of his arm. "And because your body belongs to you, it is beautiful, as well."

Dean felt a very delicate touch near the scar on his back. Not quite touching it, but drawing a perfect border around it. He found himself blushing for some reason. Sure, he could loudly insist that he wanted to have sex with Cesaro all he wanted and not bat an eyelash, but his touch and his words were what made him lose composure.

His life was funny in that way.

"Th-thanks," he mustered.

"Lie down for me, Bärchen. On your stomach, if you please."

He was in no position to negotiate at this point. Cesaro was buttering him up all to hell and he'd be a complete and utter dick if he threw it back in his face. Without another word he turned over and lay his cheek against the pillow, finally scrounging up the courage to face his bed mate.

They locked eyes for some amount of time, neither in much of a hurry to look anywhere else. Cesaro always smiled with his eyes more than his lips, and that warmed Dean even more so than their furious and quick intimacies in broom closets and the backseats of rental cars and abandoned locker room shower stalls.

Finally, Cesaro leaned forward and lay his palm against the scarred shoulder blade, just barely in contact with it.

"Is this all right?"

Dean made a muffled grunt of approval. He was a little bit itchy about it, but he didn't want to be.

Maybe he didn't have to be.

"I actually quite like scars," Cesaro explained as he gently rubbed his palm against the raised tissue. "I find them interesting. Like any other feature on the human body, even if someone else has them, they are unique to the individual who bears them. So, because these scars are attached to my beloved Bärchen, I can't help but think that they're beautiful."

He shifted from his position, joining Dean by lying down on his stomach, half on the mattress and half against his legs and lower back. With one cheek resting on the tensed muscles surrounding his spine, Cesaro went on, murmuring into Dean's back.

"These scars are yours. They belong to you. You don't belong to them." He paused to brush his lips against his skin, laying down a quick kiss. "That said, I can understand if you don't like them. However much I might love to look at them, they still come from something that happened to you. And you may not necessarily want to be reminded of it."

"It's okay," Dean said quietly. "I-I mean. It's okay that you like 'em."

Dean shivered suddenly as he felt Cesaro's lips press softly against the scar on his shoulder blade. He let out a warm sigh, surprised at how good it felt. His past lovers would simply avoid them, as if he might come apart if they touched the seams on his skin. He couldn't ever pretend they weren't there like they could.

And it was nice that they were getting some much-needed attention.

"I love them," mumbled his lover as he planted another kiss on the one on his arm, "as I love you. Were it any different, I wouldn't be able to remain with you and yet live with myself."

A smile found its way to Dean's own lips. He relished the softness of Cesaro's lips methodically touching down at each one of his scars – the one on the back of his neck, which had resulted from a gruesome injury during a match; the one near his hip, from a particularly brutal shakedown when he was a teenager; the one behind his ear that he honestly couldn't even remember where he got, because he'd woken up from a stupor afterward, bleeding on the floor in his living room.

Eventually he turned over onto his back of his own will and pointed at his shins.

"Got some there, too," he explained with a smirk on his face.

Cesaro smirked right back at him and slid down to kiss those ones, as well. And it took him quite a while, because there were so many tiny white marks against his legs and knees. Primarily from the normal childhood scrapes, but also from the broken glass scattered about the mat during the Tournament of Death.

But Cesaro took that time, and was determined to enjoy it. Every single tiny, nigh-imperceptible scar that he saw, he made sure would feel his admiration. And while he took care of each one, Dean melted against the bed, his limbs turning to jelly and his stomach muscles burning in the best way.

Finally he finished with a nearly invisible scar on Dean's thigh. With that, he crawled onto Dean, matching chest to chest and cradling his lover's head in his arms.

"Feel better, Bärchen?"

Dean nodded, his eyes drawing open at the sound of Cesaro's voice so close to his own lips. "I know that I don't have any scars on my lips, but... could you...?"

He didn't even have to ask.


End file.
